


the pines are silent

by theplatinthehat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Is A Pine Tree In Sunglasses, Flashbacks, M/M, Mushrooms, Pine Trees, i bloody love fungi i'm so sorry for forcing my obsession on you, i completely butcher drawlight's beautiful style of prose, liberal use of song and bible references, reference to past discorporation, so please bear with me, this is me trying out a new style of writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 15:22:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20530214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatinthehat/pseuds/theplatinthehat
Summary: A demon stands at the edge of a forest. He is here to forget. But forgetting is not that easy when all you can hear is the inside of your head.





	the pines are silent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> Happy Birthday, Drawlight, you wonderful etheral being of pure creativity. You captured my heart some weeks ago with your wonderful words, and I was dying to have a go at recreating your unique writing voice for myself. This is the result and I really, really hope you like it! Also, I can only apologise for forcing my love of mushrooms on you - I just think they're really neat.
> 
> I made a playlist to accompany this fic, so check that out if you like: [the pines are silent](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3W4VKhQU2mA75LTff2trsv)
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr, I'm @theplatinthehat or leave a comment - I don't mind which! You can reblog the [fic post here](https://theplatinthehat.tumblr.com/post/187514048293/the-pines-are-silent-a-demon-stands-at-the-edge)
> 
> A massive thank you to my sister for beta'ing, despite me playing the otamatone version of Greensleves in the other room. She also deserves credit for 'xylocelestial' which is my new favourite word.
> 
> Happy reading!

**A Caledonian Pinewood, 1800**

Tell me about a pine forest. 

You start with a cone; just one is enough. Take it. Hold it in the palm of your hand. Turn it. Admire it in its imbricate symmetry. Can you feel the life pulsing in your hand? Seeds, ready to burst forth into glorious life. Put it down, let them go; it’s the only way these seeds will grow. 

Leave. 

Stay away for a decade, maybe two. Come back and you’ll find a forest spread out before you _(and the trees of the field shall clap their hands)._ A whole forest, begotten from a single structure. A canopy clasps its fingers above your head. Carve a story from their wood, a monument for all the world to see. 

(I don’t want anyone to see. I want you to see.)

This is a place of secrets – we bury them at the root the trees. Whisper them into the earth, where no-one will find them (except for me). There’s no fear of the wind stealing your words here; the barber of Midas, free to spill his guts. It’s a silent world. Noise is absorbed by needleprick leaves. Birdsong has no home in this silent cathedral.

Someone sets foot in the forest. This is not unusual – the local people have wandered in amongst these trees for generations. Children have played in their shadows, telling tales of knights and dragons, heroines and adventures, before running off to cool in the Falls of Tarnash.

But the person-shaped being that has just stepped over the threshold is a stranger to the forest. Foreign smells cling to him: coal, smoke, pollution. Ah, a pilgrim from the city. Yes, he must be, for he is dressed head-to-toe in black and the clothes he wears are not suited for the immense trek he is about to make.

Remarkable.

The forest is old. But this being is older – impossibly so. Eyes, hid behind darkened lenses, swim with stories of things best left unsaid. Hair falls in waves of red about his shoulders.  
Crowley is a traveller. There isn’t a city he hasn’t visited. London, Coventry, Lancaster, Carlisle, Edinburgh – all city stops on this pilgrimage north. But this is further than he’s ever been before. A town outside of Inverness. There’s a hill here – the humans call it _Balloch_. Across its head are the well-worn lines of living. Paths carved from centuries of travelling. Bleachwhite scars scored through purple heather.

Crowley knows about travelling. Part of it is for the job. Most of it is for himself – for those unanswered questions. How far does this road go? Where will it take me next? Where will I see you again? (How far will I have to go? This frail heart of mine cannot take your absence a moment longer.) 

_Deal with it longer_, he scolds himself, flicking redcurl hair over his shoulder. He is not here to think about fairlight hair, or dream of rainkind eyes. He is here to experience. To discover. (To forget).

He has lurked on the edges of this place long enough. Admired from afar. Stood in the shadow of its horizon. But the time has come for him to venture (a saunter vaguely upwards, if you will), and explore the remote world of these highlands. 

Crowley is here to hide.

And the forest welcomes him with open arms. 

To forget, to _forget_. Nearly six thousand years and he has never learned how to forget. Forget the shy glances; forget the stolen touches; forget the wine-loose laughter. He cannot forget. Rome, Golgotha, London, Paris. These things are stored in a safe place, next to his witherblack heart. You would have to pry apart his ribcage to tear those memories out. (I’ll share them with you, angel. Only you. Forever and always, you.)

He shakes his head, bites his lip. No.

_No._

This will not do. He not here to think about that. He is here to think about _anything_ but that. What is it the cityfolk say? A brief walk in the country is a most agreeable way to reset the mind.  
But what do the cityfolk know of silence? Surrounded by the infernal, eternal noise of the metropolis when do they have the time to seek out peace? They’re busy, so busy. Humans and their fleeting lifespans, squandered running from one exciting experience to the next. What is it now? Ah yes, steam locomotion. Only early days for the technology, but Trevithick is looking promising. Yes, Crowley will have to pay the man a visit – and if a few miracles are required to get his projects off the ground, well, he can claim them back when the commendation comes through (provided Aziraphale doesn’t beat him to it). 

He doesn’t want to think about work either. But the silence surrounds him, drowns him – just a demon left alone to pick miserably at his thoughts. 

A drop of water, today, _will_ roll down the mountains and meet the ocean by the morning. A universe, without energy, _will_ descend into a state of entropy. And Crowley’s thoughts _will_ inevitably (_ineffably_) turn towards the angel.

_Aziraphale._

Demons can see in the dark. That’s just as well – it’s nearly as black as pitch in here. A few of slivers of sun glean their way through the shadowed canopy, the branches reaching Babel-like towards the heavens. Illumination.

Something catches his eye; a yellowbright beacon in a carpet of needles. A fallen branch, with unearthly amber antlers reaching heavenward. If he didn’t know better, Crowley would have thought they were reaching for the sun.

But Crowley does know better.

_Calocera viscosa._ The yellow stagshorn. 

Like poisonous plants, Crowley has made it his business to familiarise himself with the kingdom _Fungi_. Their toxins have proven useful in his demonic work, and he knows how much Az- how much humans adore them to eat.

_Calocera viscosa._

Edible, yes. Tasty? Not so much – but bright enough to make a dish more aesthetically pleasing.

He picks up the branch, removing his sunglasses to scrutinize it fully. Around the branch he can make out the feathery hyphae – mycelial threads that slowly pick apart these earthly remains. (Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.)

_Fungi are the only organisms with the biological aptitude to link death to life._

Without fungi, there would be no soil, no plants, no _life_. She had really done a good job with mushrooms.

Decomposition. Transformation. Restoration.

Crowley had buried Aziraphale once. There’s a noise in the forest, something like a dying animal. With horror, Crowley realises that it’s come from his throat.

He falls, 

_to his knees. _

_Oh Someone, oh Anyone – don’t let this be true…_

_It’s a deep, dark night and the wind is whipsharp around his body. Sand bites at every inch of exposed flesh. Thunder rumbles overhead and there are flashes of lightning in the distance._

_Is this the reckoning? Is this it?_

_It feels like it is._

_Has our time on Earth run its course?_

_At his feet lies… lies…_

_Aziraphale._

_No. _

_It’s not the angel, not anymore. Just an empty shell where his soul should be._

_“Aziraphale,” he cries, against the night, against anything that will hear his sorrow._

_Hot tears carve paths through the blood caked on his face, their ironsalt taste commingling in his mouth. Blood? How had that gotten there?_

_Flashes of memory come back in fits and starts. Blacked out in a fit of rage – a demonic temper allowed to reign, unchecked. There are remains around him; pieces of something._

_With a shudder, Crowley realises that they had been human. _

_He remembers the glint of a knife. A cry of disbelief. Bluerain eyes closing one last time. _

_He swallows the guilt, swallows the horror. He’s a demon – that’s what he does._

_“Aziraphale.”_

_It’s barely a whimper this time. _

_He cradles the angel’s body in his arms, grief so overwhelming he doesn’t care who or what sees him. (Let them come. Let them even dare set a hand against me. I’ll kill them all. I will. I will. I’ll kill them, every single one of them for what they did to you, my angel. Let the Nile flow thick with blood again – this time it will be theirs. A plague of their own devices.)_

_“Tell me it’s not true. Come on, angel. You’ve survived worse than this.”_

_Faith. He has faith enough. Not in Her, but in his angel. _

_“Please,” the demon begs, pressing his forehead to cold skin. “Please. One more miracle.”_

_Maybe if he believes hard enough, maybe he’ll come back to him. Just maybe… maybe…_

_He throws back his head and howls at the storm._

_“Help me! Oh Someone, help me, please, please help me!”_

_Only the thunder replies. She hasn’t spoken through storms since the time of Moses. She prefers a still small voice of calm these days. _

_Crowley cries, and he cries, and he cries. Cries for his angel. Cries for himself. Cries for time well spent, and cries for time wasted._

_“Aziraphale!” he screams at the sky, but the sky does not regard him._

_The storm rolls around him. Lightning tears the sky to pieces._

_“Leave!” he shouts at the raging firmament. “Leave, now!”_

_Only She has control of nature. Only She can silence a storm._

_She must hear him. The wind swoops upward, and rips the storm apart. The clouds withdraw – to where? Crowley doesn’t know._

_He doesn’t care._

_None of it matters any more._

_The stars shine down on the desert sand; the surface of the Earth glistens like diamonds._

_Crowley stays there, kneeling in the sand, long after the tears stop flowing. He runs his fingers through light curls, as if it would provide some comfort (for who, he isn’t sure). There’s a red stain on the white linen. With a wave of his hand, it’s gone._

_He really should go. The death of an angel is bound to attract some unwanted attention. Crowley needs to leave – now. _

_He stands to go. Turns._

_But he can’t._

_He can’t just leave the angel’s body lying in the desert for anyone and anything to gawp at. There’s no time for a tomb. He makes up his mind; starts to dig. The sand shifts around his feet, and falls back into his meagre excuse for a grave._

_ **(We can bury him for you. We are the desert, and we have stolen many. We have stolen, and we have buried. Over hundreds of lifetimes we have taken from them. And now we can take from you. He’ll be safe in our arms. We will watch him. We will protect him. He will be lost, but he will be guarded.)**_

_Crowley grits his teeth, and continues his labour. He will do this right. _

__

__

_It’s what the angel deserves._

_Crowley digs, the loose sand forced to deny its nature by imagination and sheer spite. He lays the angel’s body in the grave (gently, gently) before allowing the wind and the sand to have their way. Pale face, swallowed up by red dunes._

_He stands for a while, staring at the spot where the angel’s face had been. He wonders if he should say a prayer (would it be wise for a demon to even try?) but he can feel the ground beneath his feet start to burn. Even in death, the holiness of the body is enough to consecrate the ground in which it lies._

_He smiles through the tears._

_Even in death._

_Crowley collapses to his knees. It burns, he knows, but nothing can compare to the pain he’s feeling in his heart._

_“Aziraphale.”_

_He knows this is not the end. Aziraphale will get a new body, eventually, and return to his post in due course. (It’s happened before. It’s bound to happen again.)_

_But he’s never seen him actually die._

_Should it hurt this much?_

_Should it hurt at all?_

_Aziraphale…_

is fine.

Crowley is on his knees, cushioned by a bed of last year’s pine needles. He’s clutching the branch like it’s a lifeline. He shakes his head, dusting off memories long past.

He had been right. Aziraphale was back on Earth a few weeks later, body all hard and angular. Nothing but the best from Upstairs. It had taken the angel some time to get back to his preferred weight. Softer. Happier.

Crowley had never told him what he’d done. Preferred to pretend that it hadn’t happened – that a stormy night in Persia had been spent far, far away from the desert.

And Aziraphale had never asked.

With a sigh, the demon gets to his feet, holding the branch and its fungus at eye-level. 

“Alas, poor Yorick.”

He delivers the line with a wry smile.

The pines are silent.

He drops the branch and plunges deeper into the forest. After such a visceral reminder of past events, Crowley knows there’s no point in fighting it. No point in hiding it. He’s known for so long, and running has only made it worse.

Crowley is in love with Aziraphale. He has been for a long time; since the start of time. And he’s done his damnedest to protect the angel from that fact. 

An angel, loved by a demon? That could land them in some seriously hot (and potentially holy) water.

He’s _tried_ to protect him, full stop. Because he can lie, and say that he was passing through Paris, but he can still recall _every_ single miracle he did to ensure that Aziraphale made it out of the Reign of Terror alive. With every passing century, he gets more and more bold about protecting him.

And then just last week those _blessed_ archangels had come to take the angel back to Heaven. 

It’s become more than just protecting, hasn’t it?

That’s the real reason he’s here.

Loving Aziraphale is something he can accept. It’s been a part of him for so long, he’s forgotten what it was like _not_ to love the angel. But unrequited love is something safe, something passive. But reaching out, _interfering_ like that… well, it’s not something that can be explained away to Head Office that easily, should they ever check up (they never do).  
_(It’s not Head Office I’m worried about.)_

Selfishness. That’s all it is. He’s a demon – of course he’s selfish; possessive. He takes what is his, and coils around it with his serpentscale body. She had instructed the humans not to covet (rule ten: do not covet thy neighbour’s angel), but what of demons? They received no such warning. So, covet he does. He’ll keep the angel as close as he is permitted.

Can he keep him closer?

Crowley sighs. 

So, what is he to do with this knowledge now? Wrap it up and pretend it doesn’t exist? Bury his secrets at the roots of these wordless watchers? _(Be careful now. The secrets of a demon are like fire. Watch out – the smallest spark can start an inferno. In the woods, or in the heart – which would cause the most damage?)_ He can’t do that, can’t go back – not when memories like _that_ lurk just below the surface of his denial.

What can a demon do with a secret like that?

_Confess._

Leave it on the wood-carved altar of these xylocelestial guardians.

Crowley bites back a laugh. A demon, confessing his sins, his _love_ in the depths of the forest? How peculiar, how bizzare…

…how _wonderful_, he thinks as the last words of his confession pass his lips. He feels lighter, that somehow everything is going to be alright.

He’s reached the edge of the forest.

(Listen. You don’t know it yet, but your love will survive multitudes: an argument, a bomb, a fire and even the end of the world itself. Listen. You will walk through hellfire to keep him safe. In the end, he will love you too, and your love will part the waters of death. Yes, three worlds will sing of your love and it will be the greatest song ever sung since the song of creation.)

The day is bright. Crowley leaves his troubles in the care of the forest – and steps out into the light.

**The same place, 2022**

“I can’t see why you’ve dragged me all the way out here to see a pine forest. There’s plenty of those that have _cafes_, Crowley. There’s shop at Nethy Bridge serves the most delightful cakes. Crowley – are you even listening to me?”

Crowley smiles, looking back to see his angel (his!) standing unimpressed a few yards behind him. He’s panting.

“Surely, you’re not out of breath, angel?”

“It’s very hot!”

The demon laughs. “Well if you insist on wearing all those layers…”

“We’ve been over this before, Crowley, I have _standards._”

Crowley shrugs, “Your choice in partners begs to differ.”

At that, Aziraphale’s face falls. He catches up to Crowley and takes his hand.

“Please don’t say such horrible things about yourself, my dear. You’re the highest standard I’ve ever had.”

_And this is what it’s like to love you. It’s trying to be better – for you, only for you. But my nature doesn’t make it easy, will you forgive me for that (of course you will)? I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try. I can give you everything I have, as pathetic as it is. _

_(All that I have, I give to you.)_

_And this is what it’s like for you to love me. Every part of you shines with goodness. You’ll never cleanse me completely (you can’t, you can’t) but perhaps it’s enough to stop you soiling yourself with the mire of me. That darkness goes on and on. I was drowning in it._

_(Not anymore)_

“I’m sorry, angel.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Crowley. You just have to know how much – “

He interrupts Aziraphale with a kiss. “I know it. I swear I know.”

They rest their foreheads together, and stand awhile. The sun beats down on them, but Crowley knows its rays have got nothing to do with the warmth that’s spreading through his chest. 

“Do you know it too?” he asks.

Aziraphale sighs with a smile, and looks up into Crowley’s face, “Of course I do, my dear. I know it more than anything else.”

The angel steps back, but doesn’t loosen their hands. “Come on, did you say the summit was through this bit of forest? The sign at the bottom claimed you can see seven counties from the top – seven!”  
Aziraphale drags them, fingertight, to the treeline. Crowley detangles himself with a laugh as Aziraphale pushes into the dark cathedral. He’s off on a tangent now, talking to himself about pine nuts. _Pine nuts, piñon, pignoli too. Angel, angel, tell me which of these you want the most. I’ll make them for you, in our little cottage on the Downs. I’ll give you everything you ever wanted. This is our side, our time. You can have it all – you just have to say._

Crowley pauses at the threshold, observing the shadows with a reverence he failed to show all those years ago. He reaches out, and lets his fingers drag over the brownknot bark.

_Hello, old friend._

“Come _on_, Crowley,” and he swears he can hear his angel’s pout in the dark. “If we don’t get a move on that marvellous-looking teashop will be closed by the time we get back to the village.”

The pines are silent. But it’s a warm silence.

Some might call it peace.

“I’m coming, angel,” Crowley says with a smile.

Their footsteps retreat. They do not have far to go.

_(Be led forth with peace, old friend.)_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] the pines are silent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194288) by [semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona_podfic)


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